by J. M. Barrie
VI. A Shock
It was on a May day, and I saw Mary accompany her husband as far as thefirst crossing, whence she waved him out of sight as if he had boardedan Atlantic-liner. All this time she wore the face of a woman happilymarried who meant to go straight home, there to await her lord'sglorious return; and the military-looking gentleman watching her with abored smile saw nothing better before him than a chapter on the DomesticFelicities. Oh, Mary, can you not provide me with the tiniest littleplot?
Hallo!
No sooner was she hid from him than she changed into another woman; shewas now become a calculating purposeful madam, who looked around hercovertly and, having shrunk in size in order to appear less noticeable,set off nervously on some mysterious adventure.
"The deuce!" thought I, and followed her.
Like one anxious to keep an appointment, she frequently consulted herwatch, looking long at it, as if it were one of those watches that donot give up their secret until you have made a mental calculation. Onceshe kissed it. I had always known that she was fond of her cheap littlewatch, which he gave her, I think, on the day I dropped the letter, butwhy kiss it in the street? Ah, and why then replace it so hurriedly inyour leather-belt, Mary, as if it were guilt to you to kiss to-day, orany day, the watch your husband gave you?
It will be seen that I had made a very rapid journey from light thoughtsto uneasiness. I wanted no plot by the time she reached her destination,a street of tawdry shops. She entered none of them, but paced slowlyand shrinking from observation up and down the street, a very figure ofshame; and never had I thought to read shame in the sweet face of MaryA----. Had I crossed to her and pronounced her name I think it wouldhave felled her, and yet she remained there, waiting. I, too, waswaiting for him, wondering if this was the man, or this, or this, and Ibelieve I clutched my stick.
Did I suspect Mary? Oh, surely not for a moment of time. But therewas some foolishness here; she was come without the knowledge of herhusband, as her furtive manner indicated, to a meeting she dreaded andwas ashamed to tell him of; she was come into danger; then it must beto save, not herself but him; the folly to be concealed could never havebeen Mary's. Yet what could have happened in the past of that honest boyfrom the consequences of which she might shield him by skulking here?Could that laugh of his have survived a dishonour? The open forehead,the curly locks, the pleasant smile, the hundred ingratiating wayswhich we carry with us out of childhood, they may all remain when theinnocence has fled, but surely the laugh of the morning of life must go.I have never known the devil retain his grip on that.
But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shame hadpossession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then the entanglementwas her husband's, and I cursed him for it. But without conviction, for,after all, what did I know of women? I have some distant memories ofthem, some vain inventions. But of men--I have known one man indifferentwell for over forty years, have exulted in him (odd to think of it),shuddered at him, wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) tojog along with him tolerantly long after I have found him out; I knowsomething of men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you.
Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deed that werebetter undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, you foolish, soft heart,and I shall say no more about it. Obstinate one, you saw the look onyour husband's face as he left you. It is the studio light by which hepaints and still sees to hope, despite all the disappointments of hisnot ignoble ambitions. That light is the dower you brought him, and heis a wealthy man if it does not flicker.
So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several times she madelittle darts, as if at last resolved to escape from that detestablestreet, and faltered and returned like a bird to the weasel. Again shelooked at her watch and kissed it.
Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone.
Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a last terrified lookround, she popped into a pawnshop.
Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as the doorrang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought a street where shewas unknown, why she crept so many times past that abhorred shop beforedesperately venturing in, why she looked so often at the watch she mightnever see again. So desperately cumbered was Mary to keep her littlehouse over her head, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smilingface for her husband, who must not even know where her little treasureswere going.
It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-heartedagain. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she had left her watch,and I had peace of mind to note how thin and worn she had become, asif her baby was grown too big for her slight arms, even then I waslight-hearted. Without attempting to follow her, I sauntered homewardhumming a snatch of song with a great deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o init, for I can never remember words. I saw her enter another shop, babylinen shop or some nonsense of that sort, so it was plain for whatshe had popped her watch; but what cared I? I continued to sing mostbeautifully. I lunged gayly with my stick at a lamp-post and missedit, whereat a street-urchin grinned, and I winked at him and slippedtwopence down his back.
I presume I would have chosen the easy way had time been given me, butfate willed that I should meet the husband on his homeward journey, andhis first remark inspired me to a folly.
"How is Timothy?" he asked; and the question opened a way so attractivethat I think no one whose dull life craves for colour could haveresisted it.
"He is no more," I replied impulsively.
The painter was so startled that he gave utterance to a very oath ofpity, and I felt a sinking myself, for in these hasty words my littleboy was gone, indeed; all my bright dreams of Timothy, all my efforts toshelter him from Mary's scorn, went whistling down the wind.
